


A Bad Day

by Laina_Inverse



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gentlemen cook, Oleg has a secret pad, Oleg is a gentleman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laina_Inverse/pseuds/Laina_Inverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A party sounds like a good idea, Shaundi'spissy attitude aside. Hooker assassins, power cuts, and helicopters make it much less so, and Kat Somers, Saints Boss, is heavily considering throwing Pierce and Zimos off the penthouse roof. Oleg calls and offers her a place to recouperate in relative peace, and that leads to some interesting, intriguing, and unexpected conversations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bad Day

To say that Katherine Somers—known to most people as Boss Kat, leader of the 3rd Street Saints gang—was upset would have been putting it mildly.

It had started with Shaundi's pissed off phone call about Pierce throwing a party at the penthouse. Shaundi had every right to be upset about the timing of it, but in this matter, Kat had sided with Pierce; Johnny wouldn't have wanted them to mourn, he would have wanted them to party so hard that they woke up somewhere in Steelport with no memory of how they got there. Probably covered in the blood of a rival gang at that.

The party actually hadn't been half bad. Plenty of pretty women—she really needed to talk to both Pierce and Zimos about catering to the female members of the group that preferred _men_ —who were well versed in their craft of choice. The music was good, even the alcohol—which she didn't typically indulge in too much—wasn't terrible.

Unfortunately, they were more than just prostitutes, and the resulting shoot-out had almost gotten Pierce killed. It had been luck more than anything else that Kat had been coherent enough to hear the click of a gun being cocked over the sound of the loud music, and had been able to get the woman off before she shot him full in the face.

It had degenerated from there. Over _half_ the hired women had been assassins, there had been a good number of snipers on adjoining roofs, they'd cut the power at one point, and then Oleg had called about helicopters. Kat had scrambled from one issue to the next, breaking her favorite pair of heels, and being shot at but pistols, sniper rifles, shotguns, machine guns... oh, and the rockets from the helis. _And_ the electrical outbursts when the rockets hit the equipment step up on the roof. Her left leg was _still_ twitching from those.

 _Everything_ hurt, really. She had suffered too many grazes to count, had been shot through the shoulder at least twice that she was aware of, had damn near broken her ankle when her heel had broken thanks to a sniper shot—her _favorite heels—_ oh, and of course now the booze was wearing off and she was getting a headache to boot.

“Shit boss, I-”

She glared Pierce into silence. She wasn't in the mood for excuses, apologies, or anything else that might fall out of his mouth. Most days, she liked Pierce. He was a good worker, a good friend, and every now and again, a good lay. This day though? This day she was heavily contemplating hanging him out of one of his own helicopters and taking a fly around the city.

When she limped in his direction—he was between her and the bedroom—he quick-stepped out of the way, almost knocking Zimos over.

“Watch out, brotha,” Zimos complained in his auto-tuned voice. “Why you jumpin outta the way like-”

She threw her broken shoes at both of them to vent some temper, which shut Zimos up. Pierce yelped as one clipped his ear, which didn't make her feel that much better; he should have been able to dodge it.

She didn't slam the bedroom door, no matter how heavily tempted, because one of the other Saints—a woman whose name she didn't know yet but had some medical training—followed her in to take care of the worst of the visible injuries. She ended up with one arm in a sling to avoid making the shot shoulder worse, her ankle wrapped for support, and a bunch of bandages and bandaids.

Once the caretaking was done, she threw a few changes of clothes into a backpack, pulled on a new pair of flat-heeled shoes, and headed for the elevator to the garage. She was too pissed off at the moment to properly talk to Pierce _or_ Zimos, and she sure as hell wasn't staying in the penthouse while there were bodies and blood that needed removing.

Granted there weren't many _other_ places to stay that lived up to her standards. Shaundi's ex's place was small and cramped; Kinzie lived in a warehouse and took no effort at even _trying_ to make it liveable—she was going to have to fix that at some point—Angel's gym was a _complete_ wreck, and she was _not_ crashing at Zimos' place while she was thinking of dropping the pimp off the nearest bridge and making him swim to shore. Repeatedly.

A hotel then. A posh one. There was one near the penthouse she could get to... if she could figure out how.

Her injuries meant typical driving was out of the question; her motorcycles needed both hands with their speed. A car was too confining, though; she needed speed and to let the rushing wind cool her temper. And walking was simply out of the question. After some hard thought she eventually decided on the little moped she'd recently acquired; fast enough to help, storage space for her stuff, and not so hard to control that having only one hand would be potentially fatal.

She had been driving the streets, far more carefully than usual, for about fifteen minutes when her phone rang. She was heavily tempted to ignore it, but it was the ringtone she'd assigned for Oleg, so she found a place to park just outside a Friendly Fire store and reached up with her good hand to hit the button on her bluetooth earpiece.

“What?” she snapped.

“You are not at the penthouse,” Oleg said, his accented voice carrying the typical calm for the big man. “Is it still standing?”

“Yes. Thanks for the warning about the choppers,” she said a little grudgingly.

“You are upset. Where did you plan to be staying?”

“Why?”

“I have a place. It is not so grand as the penthouse, but better, I think, than any of the other places your allies have.”

She blinked, and sat up a little in surprise.

“You have a... what, a house? I thought you crashed at the penthouse too.”

“Nothing so fancy,” he replied, and she was willing to swear she could hear a smile in his voice. “Only a modest apartment, but in better repair than anywhere else. And not overtly affiliated with the Saints, so you could perhaps get some needed rest before embarking on the next step of Syndicate take down.”

Kat considered the idea. She was hurting, still angry... but strangely, she was starting to feel better just talking with Oleg.

“All right. Where am I going?”

He gave her an address before hanging up, and she put it into her phone's GPS, checking the route. It wouldn't take her too long to get there from where she was, and after checking to make sure some asshole in a jeep or something wasn't going to try and run her over, she revved up the motor on her moped and shot off to find her ally.

It was a decently sized apartment building, square in the middle of what was left of the Morningstar gang territory; whittling them down bit by bit was more fun than curb-stomping them, and really, competition would keep the Saints humble. Or at the very least, on their toes.

Her mood soured as that thought reminded her of what had happened at the penthouse. Pierce plainly needed to be _more_ on his toes. If he was going to fuck up like that, she was going to start taking him with her on things like breaking up rival gang gatherings and handling the random Saints calls for help.

The idea of Pierce tagging along on one of those made her smirk as she shut off her moped; give him something _real_ to do and maybe he'd think ahead a little more. Then again, maybe some of his lack-of-care was her fault in the first place for letting Shaundi take credit for his ideas back when they'd all been first coming together.

She shook her head, grin fading back into a scowl. She hadn't become the leader of this gang to play power politics with the people under her, and that was starting to feel like where this was leading. If _that_ happened, she'd clear out the bank accounts herself and go buy a private island, and get as far out of that disaster as possible.

Considering what type of private island she'd want kept her distracted as she entered the apartment building, and took the elevator up to almost the top floor. Oleg had said he would leave the door cracked, which let her find his place with ease. Which was good because the pain was steadily eroding her temper again.

She wasn't entirely sure what she was expecting to find; what she did was impressive enough that she paused to take it in.

It wasn't a penthouse apartment, no, but it was not small either; the living room directly in front of her was large, and there was a glass door at the far end that led out onto a not-insubstantial balcony. The kitchen was its own closed off little space, and she could hear Oleg moving around in it. To the left was a modest hallway that seemed to branch off into about three rooms, and to the right she could see an open door that led to a large bathroom, and two more doors that were closed. The carpet under her boots was thick and soft, a creamy sort of beige that complemented pale yellow walls.

Even the furnishing was nice; large padded couches and chairs, a frankly _huge_ television that took up a good chunk of one of the walls, large bookcases that held books, movies, and probably some video games as well, though she had a hard time imagining Oleg picking up a game controller the way Pierce did.

There were even paintings on the wall, and the room was lit warmly, but not brightly. The whole effect was surprisingly soothing, and Kat relaxed a little without thinking much about it.

“Please, come in,” he said, sticking his head around the corner of the wall that led to the kitchen. “It is not much, but you are welcome to it.”

“...if this is your standard of not much, I have to wonder what you think of the penthouse,” she said after a moment, carefully working her boots off. Her long coat followed; the room was pleasantly warm, and she was wearing a turtleneck anyways.

“Ah, but that is a Saints place, from which you do all your business,” he replied, his voice muffled as he went back into the kitchen. “It must be grand at all times to impress everyone you deal with. Also, the Morningstar had it first. They tend to go for overblown in many cases.”

Her mouth quirked slightly, a faint rendition of her usual omnipresent smile, and she limped carefully to one of the large couches to sink into it. It seemed bad manners to put her aching leg on the coffee table, so she ended up more sprawled than she'd intended. But at least that meant her leg didn't hurt too much.

“I suppose I can't argue with that. You seem to have good taste, at least.”

She heard the big man chuckle.

“I am a man of very particular tastes, yes. You seem to be a woman of the same.”

“You're not wrong. How'd you get this place, anyways?”

“I looked for it.”

She snorted, then winced.

“Smart ass.”

“You seem to prefer it.”

That made her laugh, because he sure as hell wasn't _wrong_. He emerged from the kitchen with a small tray on which rested what looked like a couple painkillers and some water.

“There is food in the process of being made, but it will take another half hour, and you look as though you could use something to help with the pain.”

“...thanks...”

She was surprised, to be certain; she hadn't really expected him to do more than let her crash on a couch, and maybe use his bathroom. But he stood over her, making sure she took the pills and drank the whole glass of water—he was very insistent on that part—before he returned to the kitchen, from which very delicious smells were coming.

The pain had dulled to a bearable level by the time whatever he was making had finished, and he invited her to step around and see it. The kitchen's attached dining area was no less impressive than the rest of the apartment, if a tad bit on the small side. The table was solid wood—oak, if she had to guess—and there were only a trio of chairs, all of them sized for the large man.

“Good conversationalist _and_ good cook?” Kat asked, sitting carefully in one of them.

“I have many talents,” he said, smiling a little.

“No kidding...”

There was no alcohol in sight—when she asked, he said she shouldn't, to avoid complications with the painkillers to which she grudgingly agreed—but the meal wasn't harmed by its lack; if anything the soda provided was of a startlingly high quality, and certainly complimented the roast.

And it wasn't until _after_ the meal—and clean up, which Oleg handled despite her protesting that she had _one_ working arm at least—that he sat with her in the living room.

“So, you dodged well?”

She snorted mirthlessly.

“Considering the number of hooker assassins, I supposed I did, but I still took hits. And the assholes made me break my favorite pair of heels. Pierce had better replace them,” she grumbled.

“He probably will; he is too fond of you to want you to hold a grudge for very long,” Oleg shrugged lightly at her surprised look. “We play chess. He talks. Not so much when he is _losing_ , but when he's feeling like he has a chance to win, he relaxes. He talks about how he joined the Saints, and who he admires. Also who he does not.”

She snorted a bit.

“Him and Shaundi have never really got on, but Shaundi's still feeling raw about what happened to Johnny on the plane. It's not her fault he decided to be a damn hero...”

“You feel guilt for his death too?”

“....I've known Johnny since I joined the Saints. He's always been a bit of a tit, but... he was a pretty decent friend when everything was gone to hell and back,” Kat sighed a little. “We flattened Loren. For me, that was closure. For her? I think she still carries a lot of baggage, but she won't _talk_ to me about it.”

After a moment, she shrugged her good shoulder.

“Johnny wouldn't want the Saints to mourn anyways. He'd want us to do what we did in Stillwater. Kick ass, take territory, and party until we can't see straight. _This_ mess is the fault of Pierce and Zimos, and I'd really like to dangle them both off one of the bridges right now.”

Oleg chuckled a little.

“They probably wouldn't enjoy that.”

“That's the point.”

“Would you pull them back up?”

“I might make them swim to shore.... Zimos in particular, since he hired the girls.”

“He might even benefit from the swim, no?”

She grinned a little.

“He might. Though I suppose he might decide he doesn't want to help me any more...”

“Yes, that might pose a small problem, considering the twins are unlikely to be on your side.”

She grimaced a little.

“I kind of want to shoot them too,” she grumbled.

“An understandable feeling. Do you have plans yet on how to retaliate?”

She shook her head a little.

“Until I heal up, it's better to lay low,” Kat admitted with a tired sigh. “I could probably buy up businesses around Steelport just to piss them off, but getting involved in any urban warfare while I'm in this state is just asking to get my ass punked.”

“You are more sensible than Shaundi, at least,” he said with a slight nod. “This is good. You are welcome to stay here until you are recovered, or have at least decided to not shoot Pierce or Zimos in the face.”

“I wouldn't shoot them in the face. The feet maybe, but not the face. And I can't exactly shoot _anyone_ right now without making my arm worse. I'd be a shit boss with just one arm.”

“You are charismatic, and sensible,” Oleg countered. “You have amazing talent at reading people, and have many loyal followers. I am thinking you would not be so useless as you think.”

She stared at him in surprise, and he smiled a little.

“I am also not terrible at reading people. You rescued me for your own reasons, but I find you are very good as a leader. You have a sharp mind, even if you also have a sharp tongue and temper. It makes you.... interesting.”

“.....was that a compliment? I'm taking it as a compliment, actually, never mind.”

Again he chuckled.

“It was a compliment. I am not so foolish as to insult my rescuer.”

“...you're a big man, I'm pretty sure you could insult me and get away with it, especially since I'm here alone.”

“Ah, but even injured, you are not unarmed, and I prefer to remain on your good side, as you seem to be very fond of high explosives.”

Kat's grin was almost innocent. For her. After a moment, he just shook his head, smiling dryly.

“The bedroom next to the bathroom will be yours. I have the one at the end of that small hall. The other three contain a study, a weapons room, and a small gym, any of which you may use if you like. You can also watch the television, but even with the cable channels...”

“There's not a whole lot on,” she nodded. “I think I'll crash for now. Thanks, Oleg. For... this.”

He nodded, offering her a hand up which she _almost_ ignored. But after considering the state of her injuries, she let him help her up, and even support her weight as far as the bedroom, where he left her to relax in private.

Like the rest of the apartment, it was impressive; the bed was queen-sized at least, and she judged the sheets to be silk, which Kat heavily approved of. Satin was too slippery for her liking, silk was nice and smooth without being _too_ smooth. The comforter was down, with a plush throw over the top of it. It didn't surprise her to find they weren't in Saints colors—while he wore them to indicate his gang affiliation, it was clear he preferred a different sort of color palette—but it _did_ surprise her to realize that they were _her_ favorite colors.

After a moment of wondering if that was accidental or purposeful, she decided it didn't matter; Oleg was part of her crew, and it wasn't like she was _subtle_ about liking the deep rosy pink over the gang affiliated purple.

Shucking her clothes took more planning and effort than she really enjoyed entertaining, but she hated sleeping in work clothes, especially considering these ones were still splattered with gunpowder and blood. Dried, to be certain, but still. Everything, _especially_ the coat she'd left on a hook next to the door, was going to need a serious wash.

But that was for later. For now, just getting into bed was trial enough, and after carefully pulling up the comforter, Kat quickly fell asleep.

 


End file.
